


Break

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2164758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my submission to this year's <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://snowpremacy.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://snowpremacy.livejournal.com/"><b>snowpremacy</b></a>, based on this prompt from <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://millionstar.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://millionstar.livejournal.com/"></a><b>millionstar</b>: "Dom breaks his leg, just in time for Christmas, leaving Matt to care for him. Dom is a demanding and whiny patient, and Matt is a hilariously inept caretaker. Madness ensues." I hope I've done it justice.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Break

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission to this year's [](http://snowpremacy.livejournal.com/profile)[**snowpremacy**](http://snowpremacy.livejournal.com/), based on this prompt from [](http://millionstar.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://millionstar.livejournal.com/)**millionstar** : "Dom breaks his leg, just in time for Christmas, leaving Matt to care for him. Dom is a demanding and whiny patient, and Matt is a hilariously inept caretaker. Madness ensues." I hope I've done it justice.

  
"God, it itches!" he whines for the umpteenth time in the last half hour or so, and I take a deep breath and count to ten to stop myself from saying what's on the tip of my tongue. I'm not known for my patience and forbearance, but I'm trying really, really, really hard, here.

He's not making it easy, though. Normally cool and collected, the man becomes a nightmare when he's sick—or, as is currently the case, injured. And to top it all, he blames me, because I was the one who insisted on the ice skating thing. Ok, look, I may have whined a bit, yeah? But, come on, Christmas! Ice skating! Fairy lights! Mulled wine! Romantic, right? No brainer, right? Not so much, as it turned out.

Honestly, of the two of us, I'd be the one odds on to go tits over; but no, it was Mr Cool and Collected who tripped over his own flippers and ended up breaking his leg in two places. A free trip to A&E in the back of an ambulance ensued, and that's where things went to hell in a hand basket for me.

Well... things were more or less ok while he was still under the influence of whatever they gave him to reduce the fracture. Actually, things were kind of nice—he becomes this fluffy cuddly bunny when he's high on meds, and he was draped all over me and kissy kissy all evening until I put him to bed.

The whole patient from hell thing started the moment he woke up the next morning. And I woke up to unceremonious and insistent poking, "Wake up, I need to pee." Ok, I'll admit it, I'm not at my best in the mornings, and the poking didn't really improve my mood. In my defence, I was still half asleep and had forgotten all about his broken leg, so I think I may be forgiven for my response, "What, you want me to hold your dick while you pee? Fuck off, I'm asleep."

What followed was not our best moment. Let's just say that casts make excellent offensive weapons and leave it at that.

So it is now Christmas Eve, a week since the A&E trip, and here I am, trying to atone for my sins, real and imagined. So I'm not the best housekeeper in the world, so sue me. I'm trying.

There's a tree—ok, it's not decorated to his obsessive compulsive standards, but it is there; a bit wonky, but it's still a Christmas tree. There's presents, although I still shudder thinking about that particular shopping trip; alright, the wrapping may not have military corners and the bows are not perfectly symmetrical, but it's the thought that counts, right? There's Christmas fare; yeah, well, it's not cooked from scratch, but I reckon if His Nibs hadn't seen the Waitrose boxes in the fridge he wouldn't have known the difference.

I had planned a quiet afternoon of huddling on the couch in front of the gas fire, maybe a short early evening walk through the park, to give him a chance to get out of the apartment and get some fresh air, before coming home to dinner and eggnog and staying up until midnight to exchange presents.

It started quite well, really. After a light lunch we settled on the couch to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas. He lay down with his head on my lap while I threaded my fingers through his silky hair, and he hummed contentedly, rubbing his cheek against my thigh. It was lovely, peaceful, and for the first time in the whole week it felt like us again, instead of a particularly unfunny version of Carry On Nursing.

Alas, the peaceful vibe only lasted halfway through the movie. And then it started. "I'm itchy." "It itches." "Bugger me, but it itches." "Christ, I'm itchy." And so on and so forth. Infinite variations on the "I'm itchy" theme. Ad nauseam. I was sympathetic to start with, I swear. I know from personal experience how maddening it is when you get to the itchy stage of wearing a cast.

So, in the end, rather than braining him with his own cast, I get up to get a chopstick from the kitchen and try to help him ease the itch with it. Is it my fault that he squirms like a bloody worm on a hook because it tickles on the way in and I accidentally kind of stab him? Or that he overreacts and ends up on his arse on the floor? I tell you, there's no pleasing some people.

Apologising profusely, I help him back onto the sofa to a soundtrack of his grousing and a litany of my shortcomings as a boyfriend, settle him in a nest of cushions, tuck him in under the throw rug, and escape to the kitchen under the excuse of making us some tea.

While the kettle boils, I have a bit of a brainwave and rummage through the pantry until I find the bottle of cooking brandy he keeps in there. With a silent cheer, I uncork it and pour a fair slug into his mug. I add in some milk and a dollop of honey, sprinkle a pinch of nutmeg and cinnamon to give it a Christmassy lift, and hey-presto! I'm hoping that the grog on top of his painkillers will tame the injured beast and bring out the fluffy cuddly bunny in him again.

Underhand? Maybe. I mean, I love him more than I will ever be able to express with words, and I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I didn't have him in my life, but come on! There is only so much whining a chap can take. "I'm itchy." "I'm cold." "I'm hot." I'm bored." "It hurts." "I'm thirsty." I swear to god, I keep expecting him to ask me to sing "Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty" to him.

Anyway.

He glares at me as I come back in, and I raise both mugs in front of me as a peace offering, "I made you some spiced tea." The glare softens a little as he sits up, "With honey?" I smile and nod, walking over to the sofa and handing him his mug, "Just the way you like it. Try it, see what you think." He takes a cautious sip while I sit down next to him, and his eyebrow arches accusingly, "You put brandy in this. Are you trying to get me high?"

Oh, bugger, the game is up. I might as well 'fess up. "Ummm... Well, yeah. I thought..." I can feel a blush racing up my neck until the tips of my ears are burning. "Aawwww, you're blushing." Reaching over, he puts his arm over my shoulders and pulls me over, and I curl up against him and bury my face in his neck, breathing in the sweet, spicy scent of his skin.

He grins triumphantly at my lack of response, "You were trying to get me high!". I nod sheepishly, and he cranes his neck to look at me, hooking a finger under my chin so I meet his eyes. "I've been a right pain in the arse, haven't I?" he says gently, his thumb brushing my lips, and I nod, "Yeah, a bit." Leaning in, he kisses me softly, "I'm sorry, I know I'm unbearable when I'm not well. And you haven't complained once. You've been a veritable Florence Nightingale putting up with me."

I huff at the Florence Nightingale jibe, "HEY! Watch it!" and his lips curl into his lopsided grin, "I was starting to wonder whether you'd been abducted by aliens, it's not like you to be that meek and mellow. I've been expecting you to throw something at me, or smother me in my sleep with my own pillow." I giggle, "It came close a couple of times, love." Sobering up, I look at him from under my lashes and thread my fingers through his, saying against his lips, "I guess it's a good thing I can't live without you."

My eyes flutter closed as he kisses me again, and the way he kisses me more than makes up for the last week. I forget about his whining, his demands, and everything he's put me through. I forget everything except the way his lips feel as they move with mine, his tongue invading my willing mouth, his hands caressing my skin under my shirt.

He lets go of my lips and pulls back a little, his eyes dark as storm clouds as he looks at me, and his warm breath caresses my ear as he closes in to whisper, "Let's see how creative we can get about managing this cast, shall we?"

It's funny how things have a way of working out ok in the end. I got my perfect Christmas Eve after all.

 


End file.
